


Red Mist

by fawatson



Category: Black Jewels - Anne Bishop
Genre: Backstory, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 06:52:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1460008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fawatson/pseuds/fawatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucivar and Daemon stick together while enslaved.  This story is set before <i>Daughter of the Blood</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Mist

**Author's Note:**

  * For [coyotemusket](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coyotemusket/gifts).



> **Prompt:** Any relationship. No noncon. Anything else is awesome.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own these characters and make no profit by them. 
> 
> **Author’s Notes:**  
>  **(a)** In _Daughter of the Blood_ we are told: “The last time the Queens had gotten careless about keeping them separated, he and Daemon had destroyed a court during a fight that escalated from a disagreement over whether the wine being served was just mediocre or really coloured horse piss” (near the bottom of p116 in the paperback edition I own). This story ‘fleshes out that dream’.  
>  **(b)** I _hope_ this is OK. When possible I prefer to be true to canon and your request specified no non-con and since Bishop writes both men as flagrantly heterosexual that meant my story focuses on their feelings for each other and the way they back each other up, rather than explicit sexual contact between them.
> 
>  **Acknowledgements:** Many thanks to Greer Watson for beta-reading.

Lucivar woke reluctantly, thirst raging, head pounding.

*About time you were awake, Prick.*

Lucivar snarled, flexing his wings as he bounded off the low divan, looking automatically for something he could use as a weapon. But he was alone; not even a solitary guard had been set to watch. 

*The bitches didn’t think you’d be in any shape to cause trouble.* Daemon whispered on a dark thread. *You out-did yourself last night.*

*As did you.* Lucivar shot back at his brother, while scanning the room for water. There was nothing but the bed, though. 

Dehydration drove him forth, first out to the practice yard where he sluiced sweat and other bodily fluids from his skin and drank down a pint of water before grabbing practice sticks to take with him, then – eschewing the designated training area – out to the wide and close-mown lawn at the front of the manor. After what he’d been through he was in no mood to play by the rules, not even to _pretend_ to toe the line.

His legs felt wobbly as he began the warm-up exercises; by the time the other Eyrien males of the court joined him, he had found his rhythm and the movements segued neatly into formal drill. Silently they fell into place beside him, one by one, repeating the mantra, over and over, until an impressive line of 13 Eyrien warriors bent and stretched and leapt in unison, with him at the centre. Half-breed slave he might be; but no-one doubted his very real skills as a warrior. 

*You do know you have the attention of the entire court, Prick – including that stupid bitch who is your mistress.*

Lucivar snarled at the image Daemon sent him of all the ladies of the court sipping wine on the balcony overlooking the front entrance. *No mistress of _mine_.*

With a running start he jumped high, then soared upwards, his wings beating powerfully till he’d achieved such height the manor below looked like a little girl’s dolls' house. Beyond the formal gardens that surrounded the queen’s residence were well-managed woodlands and the gentle slopes of farmland. It was a soft land of lush colours and plenty, far cry from the craggy black mountains and wild primeval forests of Askavi where he had spent so much of his youth. 

*And that little display has only determined your _lady_ to ride you even harder tonight.* 

Daemon’s jeering tone across the thin spear of power acted like a spur applied to a stallion. Lucivar wheeled right, tucked his head, folded his wings, and dove at top speed, snapping them open just a few feet before he hit the ground. 

*She’s planning on trying a double dose.*

Lucivar screamed in rage and headed north, catching an updraft to speed him on his way. But for all his fury, he could not outfly the images Daemon’s words brought back to him of the past two days. This little whore of a queen had a ‘theory’ about how to break him, and make him ‘suitable’ to breed from. Multiple partners had included males – had included Daemon. It had been his only relief amidst the torment of overstimulation. Behind the outward show of Black power no-one could match, they had no way of seeing the care the Sadist had had for him; Daemon’s reputation for cruelty had served them well. Spectators had not realised his groans were of relief, not agony. 

*And that idiot I’m contracted to is planning to dose me as well, though she thinks she’s managed to keep that secret.* Daemon’s spear was needle thin, Lucivar had flown so far. *She thinks safframate will push me into rut and fancies herself witch enough to handle it.*

Lucivar snarled at the dark resolve he heard in his brother’s voice. It should be an interesting evening. 

A warning twinge from the ring on his cock reminded Lucivar he was at the limit of the boundary set for him on arrival at this court. Unwilling to return so soon, he circled a few minutes, before landing in a small glade. 

At first glance there was nothing remarkable, except the care which the clearing was receiving. This corner of Terreille was prosperous land, with rich soil. He was used to seeing well-tended fields with good growth. But this secluded garden exceeded the usual high standards. A child grubbed with a trowel in the ground at one corner, a little hearth witch, dainty, not yet entered adolescence. One would expect her to have several more years of childhood ahead of her. However his careful look revealed she had already been through the birthright ceremony, and come away gifted with a pale blush rose. As he watched, she pricked her palms with the tip of a small knife and pressed them to the earth where she had just planted herbs. She smiled and hummed a folk tune as she worked, clearly enjoying communion with nature. If protected and nurtured as she deserved, the witchling had the potential to achieve opal in due course. Perhaps she might have a chance here, far from court; but he was not sanguine given this recent visit to the province. Once this land had resisted Dorothea’s influence; given the way he’d been used in the last few days, no longer could that be said to be true. 

“My lord?”

Shocked Lucivar spun round to confront the witch behind. It was not often someone managed to creep up on him unnoticed. But though she wore a jewel of palest lemon, she was a Black Widow. Her mousy brown hair and green eyes declared her from one of the shorter lived races; and the clothes she and the child wore declared them commoners. That must be why she was here, dwelling in a small cottage in a clearing far from court. Lesser in power she might be (in fact, before meeting her had anyone asked, he would have said no-one with such a light jewel could train with the Hourglass), nonetheless, witches with her skills were normally sought after. 

“Lady,” he acknowledged her greeting politely, if a trifle warily.

“Not to one with your dark jewel, I think,” she said with a smile. “I have just brought out our midday meal; would you care to join us?” 

Lucivar’s face stiffened. An invitation was within the bounds of Protocol; but no light jewelled witch like this – especially one with a child to protect – wanted a dark-jewelled Warlord Prince to tarry any longer than strictly necessary for politeness. He looked closely at her; she seemed nervous but resolute, and waited quietly. Used to young females who flirted and established queens who ordered, he was not quite sure how to respond to a frumpy middle-aged witch who simply stood. 

“Why?” he demanded. 

“Because the web I spun this morning said if you did, we both would survive,” she answered bluntly. She gestured toward the table. 

Stunned he sat, accepting the tea handed him and selecting a ham sandwich, while she called the child over. She bade the girl curtsy, but though Camilla gave him her own name, she did not introduce her daughter to Lucivar, simply pointing her to the chair on one side and handing her a plate of food. 

“So what is it you have to tell me that makes all the difference?”

Camilla shrugged, “That’s the difficulty; I really don’t know what _I_ could possibly say that would be important to a man like you. I just know the web showed me there would be a visitor today and that only by helping him could I ensure my daughter’s safety. The problem is...,” her confusion was evident, “I just don’t know how I could possibly help.”

Absently Lucivar bit into a nutcake and stroked a striped kitten who had jumped up on his lap and was licking at crumbs of ham. Mewing for more, the kitten bounded onto the table and sniffed disdainfully at the cake plate, rubbing against the bouquet of flowers before sitting down, stretching out one leg, and beginning to wash. 

“No, Tiger!” Swiftly the witch caught up the squirming kitten. “Quick, Tamsin, fetch some safframate.” Lucivar watched in astonishment as she soothed the distressed cat, wrapped him in her shawl, and, when the child brought seed heads, carefully shook one small round black seed out of the pod, dosing the kitten. He mewed, twisting his head and wriggling, trying to get free and spitting the seed out, clearly loathing it; but she popped the seed back in and held his mouth closed, massaging the furry throat until she was sure it would stay down. 

Her face showed relief when Camilla looked up to the realisation her guest was looking at her as if she had two heads. “What? Didn’t you know lilies are pure poison to cats? He was about to lick the pollen from his fur; but I think I dosed him in time. The safframate only works as a prophylactic; if you dose him after he’s eaten the lily it’s too late.” She bent her head as she checked the little cat over, rubbing him behind the ears to calm. “Of course it stands to reason: balance in all things; safframate is only countered if you ingest the lily beforehand.”

Lucivar’s eyes narrowed. “Lily counters safframate?” 

“Yes, as long as you....” Her voice trailed off as she looked at him in dawning realisation. “That’s it, isn’t it? That’s the difference.” She looked round her somewhat wildly. “There isn’t much of a market for safframate; I really only grow it as an antidote for lilies. I know shouldn’t have them in my garden when I have cats; but I do love the flowers so....” Her eyes were wide and round as she realised the implications. “I just received an order for safframate from the manor....”

“And now you will fill _my_ order for lily pollen.” Lucivar’s voice was harsh, even somewhat menacing.

Silently she nodded. “Just remember to take it first; it doesn’t work the other way round.”

Lucivar stood, stretching his wings wide in excitement, while Camilla cut flowers and harvested the pollen heads into a small carved wooden box. 

“The pollen will dissolve in wine.” 

Lucivar nodded and vanished the box. “Best leave this territory as soon as you can – today if you can manage it.” 

“But I....” Her protest died as she saw how serious he looked. “My sister emigrated to Kaeleer; perhaps the time is right to pay her a visit.”

Lucivar’s grin was triumphant as he leaped into the air and soared upward. He circled a moment watching, as below, witch hurried child into the house. Then he headed straight as an arrow back to the manor house. Conscious the afternoon was wearing on, he swooped in at top speed, then back-winged for a soft landing. Smirks from those witches in the first circle that he passed on his upstairs made him want to growl. In the room he had been using, he found fancy clothing laid out on the bed. His lip curled: silky, silver-coloured pants, no footwear, no top. Not fit for a warrior; the clothes were designed to reinforce his status as a pleasure slave – a _valued_ pleasure slave given the cost involved with these materials. 

*Bastard,* he sent on a tight gray spear. 

*Prick.*

There was something....

*Where are you? I have something I need to share with you before the party gets started.*

*It’s already started _here_.*

Lucivar growled. Swiftly he stripped, sluiced off the sweat of his flight, and called in black leather riding pants and best boots. He acquired a bottle of fine wine on a short detour to the kitchens. It took just a moment to add powder, before he made his way to the ballroom. 

Clad in gold silks, near twin to the ones Lucivar had rejected, Daemon danced a formal cotillion with the first circle of the provincial queen. No – Lucivar corrected himself – the _Sadist_ danced. As the musicians paused, and the intricate steps ended, to Lucivar’s horror, a footman approached the group with a tray. 

“If you are quite _certain_ this is your wish.” Sadi’s voice was ironic; his eyes looked almost sleepy. 

Lucivar shivered as the room’s temperature noticeably dipped. Sadi studied the wine against the light of the chandelier, before swirling it, and bringing goblet to his nose to sniff deeply. He paused, and smiled. “But I cannot approve of your choice of vintage; it smells remarkably like horse piss.”

Hastily Lucivar stepped forward, bottle held high. With a flourish he removed the still full glass from Daemon’s fingers and tossed its contents in the direction of a potted plant, before placing it back into Daemon’s hand. 

“Try this one, Daemon,” he spoke to the audience. *Drink it all, Bastard; it’s an antidote.* He was unsure his brother heard the second; the Sadist had risen to the killing edge. 

Lucivar filled Daemon’s glass to the brim with his own potion. Camilla had stressed the lily needed to be taken first; but there was no chance of that now. She had said nothing about taking the two herbs simultaneously. Perhaps it wouldn’t work, but it was still worth a try; most of what was in that glass was from the bottle he had brought. Just the merest trace of safframate-laced beverage remained. Lucivar plucked the queen’s untouched glass from her, emptied and filled it again in the same way, lifting it high in toast, before, with one swallow, downing the entire glass in unison with Sadi. He nearly choked with shock; even those small dregs contained a full dose. Had he or Daemon drunk a full glass....

His eyes met his brother’s one second before the queen beside him exploded in red rain. Lucivar had just long enough to call in his war blade and place a skin-tight Ebon-gray shield around himself before the first Warlord Prince attacked. This was no duel; there was no formal invitation to step onto the killing field. Daemon and Lucivar were, in the eyes of the Blood at this court, simply rogue slaves. Everyone knew pleasure slaves became unstable after a few years and needed to be destroyed. It was the responsibility of the males to recognise those signs and defend. 

Behind him Lucivar could hear the carnage Daemon was creating with power; but for him there was fierce joy in matching blades. He could feel the effects of the safframate in his blood: heightened awareness, that edge of aggression. However the lily pollen was doing its work too. He felt faster, stronger, more alert, but without the restlessness and overwhelming sexual need he remembered from last time. He laughed with joy as he twisted and ducked and sliced with the blade at the Opal-jewelled Warlord who had been Consort to that bitch-queen. The stupid sod had been besotted with her; better he was dead now. And deed matched thought as he took the man’s head. 

His replacement was the Master of the Guard, the Eyrien who had come first to stand beside Lucivar earlier that day on the lawn. As a pleasure slave Lucivar had received many slights from the other males at court, most particularly from the Eyriens. Sallimar, however, had never slighted him. And this man had led the way this morning; without him, Lucivar knew fewer than half the Eyriens would have joined the display of protest on the lawn. Lucivar felt fleeting sorrow for Sallimar, even as his blood rose in excitement at the challenge of matching blades with a warrior of his calibre. The first attack came low, directed at his left ankle – a feint, he quickly realised, as his opponent stabbed at his right armpit, left exposed as he countered. Lucivar snarled, feelings of regret dissolved within his killing rage. Once again he turned, dove, and leapt, practising the dance of war. When he surfaced from his rage, his blade was pressed against the neck of his opponent, who knelt before him, panting, exhausted, a bloody rivulet running down one cheek from a small nick, right arm hanging limp and useless from the hard blows dealt by Ebon-gray fuelled rage. Older, wiser, cooler eyes met younger hotter gold ones, briefly, before Lucivar dealt the killing blow. 

None of the Blood at this Court had held anything darker than Sapphire; their end had not been long in coming. They had not truly tested his prowess; though killing them had helped burn off safframate-charged irritability. Lucivar regretted none of it, not even the last execution; those Eyrien eyes had displayed relief at the ending of a service grown increasingly burdensome. He had seen soul-sick weariness more and more often as Dorothea’s influence spread. Sallimar was at peace now, however unnatural a state that might seem for an Eyrien warror; and, as Lucivar looked round now, he could see only the red mist that marked the Court’s passing. No living opponent remained. 

Out of the bloody cloud floated a lazy mocking voice. 

“I don’t think much of that vintage either; it seems everything at this court was decidedly mediocre,” Daemon announced.

Lucivar’s eyes widened as his brother walked toward him. His jewel had protected Lucivar from the debris of the rest; but the vicious queen who had dosed them had died too quickly for him to shield. He knew he dripped with her blood. Daemon walked pristine, the glitter in his eyes matching the shimmer of gold lame; his hand held, intact, that same goblet Lucivar had placed into it not long since. 

_“Mother Night.”_

“I didn’t want to mess my pretty clothes,” Daemon crooned, “not after all the thought that went into them.” He frowned, looking at his brother. “You, however, Prick, are a decided mess.”

“I couldn’t shield in time; you were too quick for me,” Lucivar said plaintively. 

*That’s not my reputation.* 

It was only the depth of relief Lucivar felt at the renewal of their link that made him realise how worried he had been. 

*No fear, Prick; annoying as you can be, I still would not want to grieve for the loss of you. Let’s get you cleaned-up.*


End file.
